


Yesterdays

by Raxacoriocofallapatorius



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And Gain, And More Loss, Gen, Just Please Don't Kill Me..., Loss, Really Very Angsty, Songfic, Switchfoot's "Yesterdays"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2017-12-28 10:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raxacoriocofallapatorius/pseuds/Raxacoriocofallapatorius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is gone. Dead and gone and John is trying to deal with losing Sherlock, but isn't handling it very well. He struggles with the loss as well as the realization of just what he lost. Post-Fall songfic based off of Switchfoot's 'Yesterdays'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Now Empty

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So. This is a song fic. It's based on Switchfoot's Yesterdays on their album Oh! Gravity. It's a good song and you can look it up on YouTube if you want to hear it, but the lyrics are at the bottom if you're too lazy to look it up. :3 It's okay. I understand. :P 
> 
> I hope that, despite the serious feels that will ensue, you guys will enjoy this fic. And a big thanks to my beta, Doctor Whobbit (Fanfic account). She gave me encouragement and corrections and advice and shit. :P I'ma stop talking now. Enjoy!

The building was long and squat. The bricks were the color of mud, the windows were small, the shudders and trimming were a deceptively bright blue, and the roof was grey. The parking lot to the side was only half full, but that was to be expected. A man accused of fabricating a criminal mastermind only to make himself look clever wouldn't have too many people mourning his … passing.

It was only two days after he jumped, but the media was still abuzz. The tabloids were throwing out theories and accusations left and right. John could barely leave his flat without being swamped with press. HIS flat, not 221B. He couldn't go in there anymore. It carried too much of Him.

He saw Him everywhere. On the street, in a cab passing by, in the shadows…

John shook his head. Hallucinations won't bring Him back. _Nothing will_. He carefully made his way down the incline that lead to the funeral parlour, leaning heavily on his cane. The cane he hadn't had to use for almost two years, the cane that had gathered dust in a corner of the flat, until two days ago. Two days and so much had changed. _It's amazing how quickly your life can fall to shit._

The doors of the parlour were just as washed out as the rest of the building. Two tarnished handles stuck out, taunting, teasing. John took a deep, shuddering breath before pulling open and stepping through the doors. The voices were hushed and the faces were solemn. A sea of strangers with only a few recognizable people. _More of a pond, really._ John limped through the lobby, stopping frozen in front of the guest book.

Most of the names ended in "Holmes" with a flourish on the "s". Certain familiar names popped out to John: Mycroft, Molly, Angelo, Mrs. Hudson, and even Lestrade was there. John allowed himself a small smile. In the end, Greg stuck by Him. Even in the end. John swallowed heavily and quickly scribbled his name down, five spaces from the end of the page.

Not willing to mingle, John made his way over to the couch and sat. Angling his cane between his legs so it was resting on his left shoulder, John sat erect, simply looking. His eyes passed over the scenery noting it, but not committing it to memory. The walls were a sickly yellow, the windows dressed with red sheer, and the floor was a pale blue carpet. The room he was in had multiple small tables that were full of colorful arrangements and there was a television to his left in a large wooden armoire, but it was off.

Across the room, through the empty doorway, John could see the casket. His casket. It was a plain black and, thankfully, closed. It rest upon a white tablecloth and was surrounded by flowers that ranged from white to pink to yellow, all cheery and out of place. _His casket. **His** casket._ John ducked his head into his hands, running his fingers through his hair and breathing deeply. He can't break down. Not here. He exhaled slowly and stood.

John walked out to the lobby again, ready for the storm. He started with the complete strangers. An empty smile in place as he shook hands. A quick nod as they recognized him. A sympathetic "I'm sorry" or "I understand" when they mention how much they'll miss Him. John hides behind his soldier face. He hides his contempt towards these people he'd never met or heard mentioned. They were never there for Him. Not before, not during, not after, and certainly not now. They're here to save face, but John will have none of it. They speak of their loss and their pain, but they feel no such thing. All they feel is relief that that's one less psychopath to worry about. _It's high functioning sociopath, if that_ , John mentally spat at them while his mask remained in place.

After the strangers were met, John moved on to the people he knew. He was nearly crushed by Angelo, who cried something about losing his favorite customer. Greg gave him a swift and genuine apology, he'd never really doubted Him. He had always held his trust. John cradled Mrs. Hudson as she emptied her eyes out on his suit, only to apologize for mucking it up. Molly gave her condolences, quickly and quietly, before scurrying off a second later. John only gave Mycroft a steely glare, he'd lost all respect two days ago, before leaving the depressing building.

John stopped just outside, looking left and right before deciding to go sit on the stone bench that was to the side. He carefully lowered himself onto the cold surface and sat, with only his thoughts as company. _Not the best company, You were better…_ His mind wandered as he waited for the wake and then the procession to be over. Once the rest of them had made their way to His ...resting place... and back, John would go visit Him. Alone, on his own.

Sighing, heavily, John leaned back against the tree that rested just behind the stone bench. He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the sun, the brush of the breeze, and the rustle of the leaves soothe him to sleep. He hadn't gotten much of that recently. He was almost completely under, the darkness calling him, when a soft familiar voice dragged him back to reality.

"I think I'll wait with you, dearie," Mrs. Hudson said as she sat next to John. "I think I need privacy when I say goodbye." She grew quiet as she looked at him, eyes warm and understanding. "Plus I don't think you need to go alone." John said nothing and only gave a weak smile that left as quickly as it came and never reaching his eyes. Mrs. Hudson sighed. "But at least Sher-" John winced, a small hiss escaping his lips, and she quickly amended herself, "He's in a better place. He's free." Mrs. Hudson tried to make it sound like a good thing, like His passing was to be celebrated, not mourned.

John laughed harshly. "Yes. He's free," he spat bitterly. Mrs. Hudson gave him a long, piteous look, but remained silent after that. Or maybe she did speak to fill the silence, John didn't know nor did he care. He simply ignored her.

The minutes flew by and soon the hearse returned. Apparently once He was in the ground, the rest of the Holmes wanted nothing to do with Him. _Bastards..._ John groaned as he hefted himself to his feet, knee protesting. He hobbled up the hill to the main road, Mrs. Hudson walking quietly behind him. Upon reaching the pavement, he lifted his arm and called out for a taxi.

Soon enough a taxi came to a halt in front of them, but it still took a few tries. _You always had this way of summoning them with just a flick of the wrist._ John held the door open, letting Mrs. Hudson slide in before him. Once he was in, John leaned forward and gave the address before settling properly. They rode to the cemetery in silence. Not the comfortable silence that John always shared with Him, but a burning silence that cut into him like a knife.

When the cab stopped, John got out and spoke quietly to the cabbie, "Wait here. We'll be just a minute." The man gave John a hard look and rubbed his stubbly chin.

"All roight," he said in a thick cockney accent, "but it'll be on you, mate. I'm keeping the me'er runnin'." John paused before nodding and turning to catch up with Mrs. Hudson who was waiting at the crest of the hill. They walked in silence that grew heavier with each step. With each step, John had to lean heavier on the cane. Finally they reach the headstone.

They stand in silence for a minute or two, just staring at the name etched into the polished stone. John finally broke the silence. "I'm angry," he huffed, head down. And he was. He was pissed. Mrs. Hudson made a sympathetic noise.

"It's okay, John. There's nothing unusual in that, that's the way he made everyone feel." John shook his head slightly, He'd never made him feel like that. John had always felt wanted, useful. Mrs. Hudson continued, growing more agitated by the minute, "All the marks on my table and the noise. Firing guns off at one in the morning." John gave a small noise in agreement. "Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine! Keeping bodies where there's food. And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with all his carryings on!"

John held up a hand, and tried to derail Mrs. Hudson's rant. "Yeah, listen. I'm not actually that angry, okay?" Mrs. Hudson nodded and grew quiet.

"Okay. I'll leave you alone to... you know," she gestured vaguely and sniffled before heading back towards the taxi. John didn't turn as she walked off and kept his eyes on the ground. He cleared his throat a few times, emotion clogging it. He glanced behind him, ensuring that Mrs. Hudson had indeed left.

Turning back forward, John shuffled in place, almost turning to go himself, but changing his mind. He sharply tilted his head, looking at the grave again, and took a deep breath. "Um," his voice cracked almost instantly. "Hm." John took a few more breaths before trying again. "You... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Um. There were times that I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this," John ducked his head, squeezing his eyes shut, "you were the best man and the most human," he paused, searching for the right word, "human being that I have ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie," he finished in a rush. "So, there."

John tucked his head for a moment, shutting his eyes and taking increasingly shallow breaths while squeezing the bridge of his nose, trying to regain his normally iron-clad control. He rapidly faced His name again, taking a few steps forward and resting his hand on the headstone. "I was so alone and I owe you so much," John said quietly. He clenched his eyes shut once more, but quickly opened them, unable to handle the image that hid behind his image of Him on the ground, red so bright against His pale skin and blue, that was once so bright and alive, now empty of all light and life...

John felt his walls begin to crumble and he took a few steps from the grave before whipping back around. "Please, there's just one more thing," his voice started strong, but broke quickly. That's what he was now: broken, beyond repair. "One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me." John's chest ached heavily and throat tightened so he almost couldn't breathe at the slip of his tongue, the mention of His name. He took a few more breaths, all of them shallow, all control lost. "Don't. Be." John's mouth opened and closed, unable to say it, until he finally choked out, "Dead." With that, the walls collapsed and all the emotion, all the anger and hurt and pain, rushed out, filling John and choking him.

He tried taking breaths, but all were shallow and only helped make him dizzy. "Would you do that, just for me?" he managed. He took another gasping breath, a sharp pain piercing his lungs. "Just stop it. Stop this..." John trailed off, physically unable to hold back any longer. He just stood there, in front of Him, and broke down. The tears poured out, coursing down his face, leaving burning trails on his cheeks. For a few minutes, John let them fall and wet the ground where He lay. Eventually, he had to regain control, rebuild the wall to contain those feelings, that overwhelming pain.

John kept his fingers firmly on the bridge of his nose as he hid it all away again. A lot of people say that when you say your last goodbye, you feel better. Like you've finally accepted what's happened. John didn't. He felt worse. _This isn't closure. This is torture..._ Emotions reigned in and cheeks dry, John reapplied his soldier face for Mrs. Hudson's sake, and turned about face to head back to the cab.

As he marched to the waiting vehicle, John promised himself that he'll never visit this place again. He couldn't face it, the truth. He would, for the first time, run away. John would honor His ... passing in another way. Visiting Him would only hurt his heart and shatter the dream that He could do that one last miracle. That He could come back for John.


	2. Ocean Floor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there. Part 2 as promised. I'm still not finished though. There will be two, maybe three, more parts before I am completely finished. I hope you guys enjoy the angst and pain and I'm sorry that I put them through all this just for our personal entertainment. :/ But only kinda... Anywho... ENJOY! [And don't forget to review]

John stumbled up to the door, digging in his pockets for the key. "I know I've got it here somewhere," he muttered, his tongue pressing on the inside of his bottom lip. "Yes," he hissed triumphantly. John fumbled with the key, using both hands to line it up with the lock, but dropped it before he could actually use it. He looked down at the lone key now on the ground. "Shit," he slurred as he leaned on his cane, trying to pick them up.

After a few more minutes of fumbling and curses muttered under his breath, John finally got the door open. He walked in, one hand on his cane and the other brushing the wall, and made his way of the steps, his knee practically screaming at him. John didn't care. His mind was too fuzzy to really focus on anything but getting up the stairs. _Up the stairs. Up the stairs. Up the stairs._

Finally reaching the top, John swayed slightly on his feet. He stared at the door handle in front of him, brow furrowed as he tried to grab the knob. "Damn thing," he muttered each time his hand missed or slipped. "Why won't you just op- FUCK!" John got the door opened and fell to the ground, hitting his already aching knee hard. He quickly rolled over, clutching it, practically yelling obscenities as he rocked back and forth. John released his knee as the pain faded and the mellow buzz of the alcohol reigned once more.

Exhausted by the climb up, John remained on the floor, spread eagle, his cane a foot or so away. Tilting his head, he looked at their flat. It hadn't changed much, only a bit dustier. _And upside down._ A giggle bubbled out of John. The thought was funny. Their flat was upside down. The giggle turned into an almost hysterical peal of laughter. _Upside down window, upside down table, upside down fireplace, upside down skull, upside down chairs, upside down mug, upside down-_ Each sight passed through his muddled brain, their significance slipping by as his eyes traveled around the room until they found His violin.

It rested on the arm of the couch, the bow peeking around it. John stared at the wooden instrument, finally feeling how much of Him was still here. The laughter had died when he saw the violin, and he remained still, just staring. Everything bore His mark, His presence, His face. _Why did I come here? Why did I ever keep that damned key? Why- why-_ "Why did You have to leave me?" His thoughts broke free and his inner wall, already weakened by the alcohol consumption, burst like it had those months ago, but this time John had no way of rebuilding it. He was worn down to almost nothing.

"I-I thought I was lost or b-broken before," John continued to break down, "when I re-returned from the war, but this... this has le-left me in ruins!" Tears that had built up behind his eyes finally escaped, and sobs wracked his body. He rolled to his right side and curled into the fetal position. "Y-you were my life, my sanity, my b-best friend." John frantically clutched at his chest, rubbing and pulling, anything to make the ache go away.

"S-Sherlock!" The name was ripped from John, a cry of anguish. After almost half a year of not even thinking His name, to taste it again was bittersweet. John was swamped with memories of their conquests and then began to drown in his loss. "Sherlock!" he cried again to the heavens, almost hoping that He would hear. "Sherlock. Oh God. Sherlock..." John's anguish grew to a point where no words would pass his lips. He simply lay on the cold floor, curled in a ball, unable to stop.

The tears kept coming, but John's sadness rapidly turned to anger. His hand fell from his chest, still fisted, and began pounding the floor. "You LEFT me! You made me WATCH!" John took more shuddering breaths, rage burning in his veins. "What sort of selfish bastard would do that?!" He struggled to his feet, knee complaining all the way. He lurched over to the couch, grabbing the Union Jack pillow and hurling it across the room towards the taunting, smiling, yellow face. It hit the wall with a satisfying thud. But not satisfying enough.

John turned and glared around the room. A mug soon followed the pillow, then some papers, and some more pillows. John angrily grabbed the skull from its resting place on the mantle and reared back to throw it, but paused. He had loved that skull, it was one of His most prized possessions. John slowly lowered his arm, staring wide eyed at the skull. It stared back, its deep sockets accusing John. _You never visit Him. You called Him your best friend, yet you do nothing to commemorate His memory._ This angered John more.

"You know nothing of my life!" he shouted at the taunting skull. "I can't go visit Him! I CAN'T! If I even think about what happened or that He's gone, I get this," John clutched the skull to his chest, "this PAIN and..." John backed up until his legs hit a chair. He slowly lowered himself into the chair to find that it was His old chair. John curled around the skull, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his head on the cold, smooth surface. The hot tears continued to fall.

"The only way I can get through just one day without Him, is if I hide it. Hide it all," John murmured, not really talking to anyone. "I have to hide the hurt and pain and depression behind a fake smile and blank eyes and let the numbness of normality wash over me. Because if I don't, He will overwhelm me and I just might die..." John took a deep shuddering breath. All the anger had fled his system, leaving him feeling drained. He untucked the skull and held it out in front of him, staring unfocused at the empty eyes.

"I have died though. On the He jumped... it killed me," the epiphany was brought to light in a broken whisper. "It killed me..." John's eyelids grew heavy, weighed down by the release. "Sherlock..." he whispered as he curled around the skull in His chair. "I miss you so much... so much..." he murmured as he nuzzled the leather arms, the scent of his best friend finally lulling him to sleep.


	3. Sentiment of a Dead Man

John opened his eyes, a pounding in his head. Dim light snuck through the dark curtains, and he sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. Glancing at the clock on the side table, John saw it was still late, or early considering it read 2:11. He fell back onto the pillows, regretting it almost instantly. John clutched at his head, groaning as he curled into a ball, the sheets twisting between his legs. He simply lay there for awhile, listening to the sounds of His home.

_His_ home. Even when it’s so silent, so unnaturally silent, He was there. John sighed heavily, nestling into the warmth of the covers some more.

_Wait a second..._ John sat up again, ignoring the pain, and truly took note of his surroundings. _I know this room._ He looked down at the silky purple sheets between his fingers. _This is His room._ John shakily lifted the sheets to his face, burying his nose in the fabric and inhaling deeply. _They still smell like Him._ He dropped the sheets and looked about the room. _But how did I get here._

John’s eyes scanned the dimly lit room, starting at the door, but his attention was caught by a figure sitting in the chair in the corner. His breath stalled and his heart stopped. Time froze; seconds became minutes became hours became days.

Simple shined black shoes, undoubtedly expensive and custom made. A crisp charcoal suit with a shirt so dark the colour was unidentifiable in the filtered light. A triangle of pale skin, peeking past the collar, stretching and spreading as it grew into a long neck. Slightly parted, perfectly pink lips with their taunting cupid’s bow. Curly, dark, unruly hair, that seemed longer than John remembered, framed glowing eyes that didn’t blink, didn’t move, didn’t waver except to change colours. _Blue, green, golden, silver,_ John mused, _dark and stormy, or alight and burning. Never staying still, always moving. Just like-_

“Hello John,” the man said softly. John blinked slowly. He was still there. John scrubbed at his eyes. He was _still_ there. John shook his head, ignoring the pounding and clenching his eyes tightly, before opening them again. He was **_still_** there. “John?” He said tentatively. John closed his eyes and just basked in the sound of Him saying his name. His normal, dull, little name had never sounded so glorious. How could John have forgotten how deep and smooth His voice was? He opened his eyes and looked at the man who consistently haunted his thoughts.

“Sherlock.” And John breathed fully for the first time in half a year.

As far as dreams went, this was one of the better ones. Normally John would be tormented by image after image of Him: standing atop Bart’s, frantically gesturing for John to not move, arms open, coat flapping, hitting the ground. The good ones were more like watching memories. The best were complete fantasies, situations created by John’s mind in which He never talks and never approaches John. They just sit and sip tea and bask in each other’s presence. John opened his eyes once more and smiled widely at Sherlock; even when dreaming, seeing Him lifted an almost unbearable weight from John’s shoulders.

Sherlock seemed a bit taken aback by John’s smile, His eyes widening as time passed and the smile didn’t fade. “So you’re here, then?” John asked breaking the silence, unable to keep the pure relief out of his voice. This was going to be a good dream, he could tell. Sherlock nodded.

John looked down at his hands, still clutching His sheets. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered, the smile falling and being replaced with such melancholy. John looked back up. “But you’re here now, so that’s good.”

Sherlock shifted in the chair. He kept watching John, silver eyes tracing over every of the doctor’s features as if it were a lifeline. Finally, He spoke. “I am sorry, John.” And Sherlock truly did sound remorseful. They fell into silence again. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it weighed heavily nonetheless. John was simply content to watch Him, Sherlock, while he could.

As Sherlock sat in the chair across the room from John, itching itching itching to be closer to feel the doctor’s warm body in his hands to feel _something_ again, he finally LOOKED at John. He could read the months of isolation, malnutrition, restless sleep in John’s eyes and hair. Seeing more, deeper wrinkles and almost entirely grey hair pulled at Sherlock’s heart. Yes. Heart. Moriarty had proven that he had one, at least when it came to his blogger, his beloved doctor.

But Sherlock also saw the relief and joy that came with his sudden appearance. And that puzzled him. He had entirely expected John to be in a rage, to knock him out cold, but this blatant acceptance was disturbing. And worrying. 

Sherlock had been receiving regular reports on the doctor’s wellbeing from Mycroft, but whenever he was in the area, Sherlock made it a point to see for himself. He always had to keep a distance because if John ever saw... In truth, Sherlock had no idea what John would do. In any case, he had to look from afar and the distance always skewed the data and he’d been unable to obtain an accurate reading of how John was actually doing.

But now, sitting in front of him, Sherlock could only feel hurt. Hurt on John’s behalf. John had suffered through so much and kept carrying on, kept believing in Sherlock and waiting for him to return. And Sherlock had no idea what sort of strain that put on John’s mind. And that _terrified_ him.

Sherlock glanced back up at John, who was still staring at him with an absent smile. _John,_ he silently lamented, _what have I done to you?_ Sherlock noticed a gleam on John’s face and, upon closer inspection, he realized that John was silently crying. 

John kept staring at Sherlock. This is the clearest dream he’s had about Him in a while and John was going to enjoy every second of it. They’d been sitting in silence for a while now, Sherlock still ( _Probably lost in thought,_ John thought affectionately) and John just watching and letting the tears fall. But suddenly His eyes sharpened, focusing on John’s face, before surging forward and settling beside John, hands hovering as if wanting to touch but fighting not to.

Finally the desire for contact with John won out and Sherlock’s large, warm hands grasped John’s shoulders and squeezed slightly. John’s eyes fluttered close as he leaned into the touch as much as he could.

“John,” the baritone pulled him out of his reverie. John blinked slowly at Sherlock, whose face was only centimeters away. “John,” He said firmly, His eyes flitting back and forth, as if He were trying to analyze the very soul of the sinking man before him. John smiled slowly. 

“Sherlock,” he murmured, sleep threatening to overtake him again. Sherlock squeezed John’s shoulders again.

“John. Listen to me,” Sherlock insisted. John nodded, trying to focus on His face, eyes, lips. “I may be gone, but you’re still here. Live your life.” John pulled back, brow furrowing in confusion. Sherlock kept going, “ _Listen to me_. Move on. Forget me.” 

John began to squirm, to pull away from this Sherlock. It’s not his Sherlock, He’d never say this. _The dream’s gone sour... nightmare... WakeupwakeupWAKEUP!_ John thought frantically.

Sherlock held on tighter, pulling John closer and shaking him slightly. “You are drowning in the past and if you keep at this you will die.” He grew quiet, closing his eyes as if to gather enough strength to finish. “A-and I don’t know if I could live without you...” John stilled.

_An odd sentiment for a deadman,_ something whispered in John.

“Please...” Sherlock breathed, eyes screwed shut. “Try... for me.” 

John watched the man before him. His eyes were still closed, but His breathing was ragged and His hands were still squeezing and releasing John’s shoulders. Sherlock felt John’s gaze on him and slowly opened his eyes and looked up. The deepest blue, stormy with emotion, stared back and Sherlock felt his breath stutter. _John is so close..._

John inched forward, his eyes locked with Sherlock’s, until his forehead was resting against Sherlock’s and their breaths mingled. John glanced down to His lips and back up again, sleep reaching for his consciousness again. He’d have to hurry and say what he wanted to say, what he couldn’t say that day at His grave.

“Sherlock,” John murmured, eyes flitting between His eyes and mouth. “I want you to know...” John blinked, trying to keep himself awake. “I want you to know _why_ I can’t forget you, _why_ I can’t move on.” Sherlock blinked slowly and barely nodded. “I-I can’t live without you.” Sherlock opened His mouth, but John cut Him off. “Let me finish. This might be a dream,” a flash of hurt danced in Sherlock’s eyes for a second, “and I won’t ever really get to tell you, but I need to get this out.” He closed his eyes and gently bumped his head against Sherlock’s. “ _Please_.”

Sherlock closed his mouth with a small “clop”.

“Sher-Sherlock... uh, um...” He took a deep, calming breath and exhaled it slowly. “I-It took me your ... your fall to realise how much you mean to me. A-And I don’t mean just as a friend.” John paused and took another deep breath. “Sherlock... I... I love you,” he choked out. “I love you, and I think I always have.” John broke into a teary grin as he felt the weight of his personal epiphany finally fall of his shoulders. “I love you,” he giggled before closing that gap and chastely kissing Sherlock. It only lasted a few seconds, but time suspended and the moment seemed to last forever. John let out a happy sigh and fell back against the pillows, eyes drifting shut as sleep finally overtook him. “I love you, Sherlock...” he murmured before succuming to the darkness, a smile still dancing across his face.

Sherlock watched as John’s breathing evened out and his features slackened, the smile remaining. He brought his fingers to his mouth, the tingling of John’s kiss lingering even after his fingertips brushed against the sensitive skin. Sherlock remained frozen there, fingers just touching his lips, crouched by the man whose very existence was tied to his. After a few minutes, he shook his head, waking himself from reverie, and stood, eyes still locked on the slumbering man before him.

“John,” his smooth baritone broke the silence. “I _will_ return. I _will_ be with you again.” Sherlock swallowed. “And I _will_ fix you again,” he promised. Sherlock turned to leave, quickly grabbing his coat from the arm of the chair he was sitting in earlier. Reaching the door, he paused and looked back.

“I love you too.”

The door shut.

And John truly slept for the first time in six months.


	4. Four Mistakes

John woke to darkness. Blinking sluggishly a few times he rolled over and snatched up his alarm clock, glaring at the green luminous numbers. Groaning, John placed it back down and fell back, rubbing his eyes and sighing heavily. _00:24..._ John sat up, slowly clenching and unclenching his left hand as he ran his right through his hair.

He hadn't had that nightmare in a while, the one where He fell over and over and over again in an endless loop. In fact, he hadn't really dreamed at all for a while. The numb had set in, an all encompassing emptiness that consumed him every waking second, just after the dream of his confession. _'The stuff you wanted to say, but didn't say it...'_ Ella's words came back to John unbidden, even though he hadn't seen her beyond that first time just after...

Well he had gotten it out after all.

_That_ dream. The one that was always present in his thoughts even after all this time; the one that was somehow created from a mixture of exhaustion, alcohol, grief, and an intense longing; the one that had reflected how he had truly felt, how he still feels, about his best friend. _That_ dream.

Rubbing his eyes, John fought off the afterimages of His empty eyes and pale skin stained with a burning red. Knowing he wouldn't get back to sleep, John carefully leveraged himself out of bed, frantically scrabbling for his cane that rest against the wall by his nightstand. Despite his best efforts, John was unable to rid himself of the limp and had in fact, grown even more dependent on the cane.

It was bordering two and a half years since He "left" and John wasn't getting any better. He wasn't getting any worse, which is always a bonus, but John was most definitely not improving. John did what the British always did in times of great struggle: he kept calm and carried on. Or John at least carries on.

He almost never leaves his sorry excuse for a flat, which was just as small and drab as the one he had before Him and twice as depressing. But John cannot stand to go out; he still sees Him around every corner, in passing cabs, in the shadows. And he no longer worked with Sarah; he couldn't handle it. Each second he sat in his office, John would be half expecting a text from Him demanding his presence whether he is previously engaged or not.

However, despite being unemployed for a little longer than two years, his bank account hadn't decreased in the slightest. If anything, John would estimate an increase of about £20,000 in the last two years. There was only one person who could have deposited so much without the bank checking with John, but he wasn't on speaking terms with the fat prat that had given Moriarty all the information he needed to push...

John shook his head, pulling his thoughts away from that day. Sighing heavily, he readjusted his grip and shuffled the few meters to his kitchen. Tea brewed and cup poured, John went about his routine, which consisted of John sitting and staring at his laptop for a few hours, unable to write anything per usual, followed by sitting in a daze on the edge of his bed until the gnawing of his stomach grew to be too much to bear. Then he would shuffle back to the kitchen, brew more tea, dump out the extra cup he still automatically makes, and grabs something small to nibble a few bites from for a few hours until said food is sitting in John's stomach like a lead weight.

It is still agony to wake up and realise that Sherlock is gone. To realise that the only time he would ever see his face, those bright, multicolored eyes, were in the dreams that no longer came. So John was carrying on, but even then he really wasn't. John was having trouble finding enough strength to make it to the next day. Some days, John couldn't even make it out of bed. He knew what that meant.

John was well aware that he was in a deep depression. He knew that he was a danger to himself. But he couldn't bring himself to care.

But memory of that one dream, that vivid wonder from about two years ago that he could still remember clear as day, leaves John fighting. 'Move on. Forget me,'He had insisted. And for the first few months, John had ignored the request. He kept telling himself it was just a dream, nothing more. But there were nights that John would lay on his bed in his dismal flat and just think back.

He would think back on the day, on the past months, on the past year. He would cautiously think back to long ago when he was broken, just not as badly. He would eagerly try to remember Afghanistan, the rush of the blood in his veins and the fear and adrenaline that kept him going for so long, but it never satisfied his consistent, underlying desire for something other than the burning ache of loss to flood his veins. His hand would still shake and his leg would still ache and his day would still be grey.

John couldn't even bear to think of Him. To think back on their time together when everything was perfect and John had a purpose and each breath was one of fresh air. And all thanks to Him. To think of that and see where he was now...

It took a few more weeks after the most recent nightmare for John to dream again. This one wasn't too bad. It was just John in 221B, sitting in his chair, and then He walked in, gingerly set down a cup of tea, and sat in His own chair, sipping His own cup of tea. It was a simple dream, not much more happened, but John still saw Him and then experienced a deep ache in his chest.

But that dream reminded him of how happy he could actually be. And it made him realise that even though He was gone, John would never forget Him because He is in his heart. As cheesy as it sounds, and John groaned over the overflowing cheese in that one realization, it is true. And it was that one thought, that one ray of light in his dismal, depressing life, that helped John pull up.

He started leaving the flat. He began looking for a job and ended up as one of the doctors in the A&E department of a nearby hospital. But not Bart's. Never Bart's. Either way, John has an income that doesn't come from his archenemy ( _His archenemy..._ ). And John's life is beginning to look better, much better. Until the day came.

_The_ day.

And for the first time in three years, John visits His grave. And instantly regrets it. One step through the iron gates and John feels the burning behind his eyes that was constantly there the first few months After. When he sees His name engraved and shining, John falls to his knees, his cane lagging momentarily before hitting the ground beside him.

A solid half hour later, John rises, stiff and aching, and leaves after giving a broken, whispered "goodbye". He still couldn't bring himself to say His name.

John opted to walk home instead of riding in a cab and begins to regret the decision as soon as he realises that the only route passes by Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. Too late to turn back, John thinks to himself, _In for the penny, in for the pound_ , and presses on. He reaches the turn that will angle him towards his flat ( _still not home. Never home_ ) and lead him directly in front of where He was. John took a deep breath and rounded the corner. Thirty steps until he could turn again. Just Thirty. Of course, ten steps in, with his eyes firmly on the ground before him, John comes across the spot.

_The_ spot.

Three years later and John could still tell where on the sidewalk He had lain. Upon seeing it, John had to stop, his head light and all the breath having rapidly left his body. And upon stopping John made his third mistake of the day and looked up.

Now, basic psychology dictates that for a person in depression the most dangerous time is _not_ when they are at their absolute lowest. No. It is when they are either falling or making the treacherous climb back up. And John was climbing, and so John was at risk.

And so John made his final mistake of the day and ventured inside the building for the first time in three _bloody_ years.

**Author's Note:**

> This began as something small, just an inkling, but as I typed, it grew and evolved into something much more. And because it's so freaking long, I decided to break it up into parts. So I'm trying to make each verse one part (it doesn't always match up exactly, so...), but I still don't know how long it's going to end up being. So, NEVER FEAR! It's not over yet.
> 
> And don't forget to leave reviews! :D
> 
> Song:
> 
> _Flowers cut and brought inside_  
>  Black cars in a single line  
> Your family in suits and ties  
> And you’re free 
> 
> _The ache I feel inside_  
>  Is where the life has left your eyes  
> I’m alone for our last goodbye  
> But you’re free 
> 
> _I remember you like yesterday, yesterday_  
>  I still can’t believe you’re gone, oh  
> I remember you like yesterday, yesterday  
> And until I’m with you, I carry on 
> 
> _Adrift on your ocean floor_  
>  I feel weightless, numb and sore  
> A part of you and me is torn  
> But you’re free 
> 
> _I woke from a dream last night_  
>  I dreamt that you were by my side  
> Reminding me I still had life  
> In me 
> 
> _I remember you like yesterday, yesterday_  
>  I still can’t believe you’re gone, oh  
> I remember you like yesterday, yesterday  
> And until I’m with you, I carry on 
> 
> _I’ll carry on, oh, I’ll carry on_
> 
> _Every lament is a love song, a love song_  
>  (Yesterday, yesterday)  
> I still can’t believe you’re gone, oh  
> Every lament is a love song, a love song  
> (Yesterday, yesterday)  
> Oh, so long my friend, so long 


End file.
